The Ones We Left Behind
by Girl Who Writes
Summary: When someone dies and there isn't a body, you never stop looking for them. And you never know who you might pass on the street. The ones left behind, and their ghosts.
1. Emmett

**Title:** The Ones We Left Behind 1/4

 **Chapter:** Emmett

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** OC, Emmett

 **Word Count:** 1,569

 **Rating:** PG

 **Genre:** Angst, Drama

 **Summary:** When someone dies and there isn't a body, you never stop looking for them. And you never know who you might pass on the street. The ones left behind, and their ghosts.

 **Notes:** This started as just a character piece on one of Emmett's sisters, after he 'died'. And then it turned into something else – you can't always predict who you run into on the street. And then I figured, well, four of the Cullens left siblings behind. So, here is the first of four parts. I apologise for any historical, geographical or linguistic errors made.

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

It was pretty rare that Mattie McCarty was on good terms with all her siblings. Being one of ten (eleven) (soon to be nine. She didn't care what anyone said, Billy was gonna drink himself to death any day now and their momma was gonna have to put another boy in the ground.)

And she had never really gotten on with Lori or Elsie. Too precious, both of them. Complaining they weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouth, worried about things like stockings and lipstick when their momma and pa were struggling to put food on the table.

Mattie was meant to be a twin. That twin was a boy, who was gonna be called Matthew, after their uncle. But he was born dead and blue, and then she was born. They called him John and buried him out the back with the two other babies born dead, she was called Mattie and that was that.

Grew up with everyone joking that maybe she really _was_ a boy, all rough and tumble, a mess of black curls and hand-me-down clothes, screeching blood murder when she was forced into a dress. She'd always had much more time for her brothers than her big sisters, who wanted to sit around and dream about husbands and babies and houses of their own. Her brothers, they'd take her fishin' and taught her to ride and played baseball with her.

Her favourite brother had been Emmett. He'd been taken by a bear when she was eight, god, more than ten years now. Not a day went by without Mattie thinkin' of him. How he always had a grin and somethin' interestin' to do. How he'd swing her onto his shoulders, or tell her that her Sunday dress made her the prettiest of 'em all.

She'd cried herself sick when they found out a bear had got him. Anyone but _Emmett._

She'd never really been the same, afterwards. She didn't ignore her momma as much, didn't run off whenever there was work to be done. Was a lot more kind to Bobby and Judy and Becca, because she might not have her Emmett, but maybe she could be their Mattie.

Time had moved on. Becca was the last baby born live, and she was twelve now. Only three of them were still living at home – Mattie, Judy and Becca. Bobby had gone and knocked up Mary White, and married her the previous spring; they were living on the White family farm, in their very own place, and their baby boy was strong and healthy. So maybe Bobby hadn't messed up as much as they thought. Wouldn't be the first time a McCarty hadn't waited for the wedding night. Jesse hadn't and he had six girls now, to the Felding girl. He'd been married when Mattie was only a baby; she couldn't imagine Jesse without one of his girls hangin' off him.

She was headed to the city because Elsie had managed what no one else had – she'd charmed some city boy passin' through about a year after Emmett died, and married him in a white dress and everything. She had a house in the city and two little boys (neither were called Emmett, and Mattie had thrown such a fit at Elsie's coldness until her momma turned to her and informed her that Elsie thought that it was Mattie who should name her babies after their lost brother, not Elsie who shrieked at him and called him names. Mattie had been stunned, because she never really felt like she'd be old enough to have babies. Even now, at eighteen, with the Carter boys whistling at her and smirkin' at her every time she left the house, she couldn't imagine being a bride and wife and mother. She was still waitin' for Emmett to come by the house and swing her into the air and call her 'Mattie-girl'.)

But she was headed to the city because Elsie was having another baby, and wanted some company – and help. Mattie was the only one who could leave for a whole month – everyone else was married or too young or too busy.

So, she packed her clothes into her momma's old red suitcase, bought herself a new hat at her momma's insistence, and headed to the city. Two trains, two days, nothin' but rain, a bus, and to deal with Elsie's dramatics at the end of it, ugh.

She wasn't entirely sure what terrible thing she had done to deserve it, truly. Lori, the traitor, had laughed herself silly when she found out, but had slipped Mattie some money so she could at least get herself a new dress or somethin' in the city. If that wasn't evidence lookin' after Elsie was gonna be hell, she didn't what was.

She saw them while she was waiting for the bus.

It wasn't the woman he was with that grabbed her attention, though she was the prettiest girl Mattie had ever seen, with shiny gold hair and a smile that lit up her entire face. Or her dress, a black and pink creation that made even Mattie envious.

It was his laugh that caught her. The swell of laughter that Mattie had never forgotten. A laugh that made her feel eight years old again, waiting at home for him to get back from work, ready to play.

A laugh that makes her jump to her feet and look around wildly, to try and find it.

To try and find _him._

For a second, she thinks that maybe he didn't die, that he ran off with the pretty girl and let them all behind, that ma and pa told them he died to spare her feelings, and she feels the anger and hate rise.

And she sees him with her. And he hasn't changed a bit. Not a line. He's _her_ age, for god's sake. But he is here and alive and not a jumble of lost bones in the woods behind the house.

She snatches up her suitcase and darts into the street, her hair falling loose around her face – the same curly black hair. People are yelling at the stupid girl in the middle of the road, but she isn't listening to them.

"Emmett!" she calls out, desperation tinting her words.

But they're already gone.

And there's really no way she could know that he saw her. And to his eyes, no time had passed. It felt like no more than a few days had passed to him, and his human life was… rather muted, washed-out in his mind. But he did remember things.

Mattie would always be his beloved little sister.

She might have gone and grown up, but she hadn't changed, not really. Her hair still fell into her eyes; she still had that scar on her nose (he can't quite remember how it got there, but he thinks it involved an animal) and her eyes are green (were his?)

And her reflexes, at his laugh, startled even Rosalie.

And he had wanted nothing more than to walk over and sweep her into his arms and hug her and make sure she was okay. That she was happy and healthy and safe. To make sure that she knew he loved her then and he loves her now, and he misses her, but he's okay too. To introduce her to Rose and maybe make some memories of his favourite sister that aren't so insubstantial.

But Rosalie had known, and had dragged him away before he gave in, to trying to recapture his human life. To them, he was dead, and he had to stay dead and forgotten.

But Mattie was still there, looking bewildered and heartbroken again she looked around for her brother again, before returning to the bench, her hair falling around her face, and her lips twisted down in unhappiness.

Leaving her behind was worse the second time.

Mattie slumped back on the bench, and tried to get over what she saw – what she _thought_ she saw. No one at home really talked about Emmett or the others anymore. Her ma had planted flowers around their graves, and kept 'em neat. But they never said their names anymore. She had often wondered if her mother ever thought about Emmett anymore, or if she had just let him go, like everyone used to tell her to, when she was thirteen and still getting nightmares about the bears, about hearing Emmett callin' for help.

It had never been that easy for Mattie to let go of him.

Maybe it was easier to pretend that Emmett _had_ run away and married a beautiful, glamorous blonde lady and was happy. That he lived in the city and still laughed and played pranks and was always looking for adventure.

As the bus pulled around the corner, Mattie hurriedly crammed her hair back under her hat and tried to make herself look slightly presentable.

Maybe it was time she left the adventure to Emmett and his lady, and accepted that he was never coming back, and she was getting older.

If Emmett had to be gone, she liked the idea that he was happy, somewhere, instead of picked apart by wild animals and forgotten.

And then, with more determination and grace than she thought she had, Mattie McCarty stood up with her suitcase, and boarded the bus, without ever looking back.


	2. Alice

**Title:** The Ones We Left Behind 2/4

 **Chapter:** Alice

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** Cynthia, Alice

 **Word Count:** 1,851

 **Rating:** PG

 **Genre:** Angst, Drama

 **Summary:** When someone dies and there isn't a body, you never stop looking for them. And you never know who you might pass on the street. The ones left behind, and their ghosts.

 **Notes:** Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story after the first chapter. I'm very grateful! Hopefully after OWLB is done, I'll be posting some of my Alice/Jasper fic (and there are a lot. It's kind of embarrassing how many scenarios I can come up with for those two.) I hope you enjoy this chapter.

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

Cynthia Bright tried to stifle her sigh as she stood on the train station.

A month ago, they had gotten news that her husband's uncle had passed away, and named Samuel Bright as the executor of the estate. Which wouldn't have been such trouble if he hadn't lived in Charlotte, North Carolina. And Samuel hadn't had a dozen greedy, grasping cousins, trying to find any loophole in the will they could. And the late Mr Bright hadn't been in control of the majority of the family finances.

It was a complete mess.

It hadn't been the first time that Cynthia was grateful Samuel had taken over the Brandon business instead of gone into the Bright business. They might have lived modestly, but at least they liked each other. She wasn't sure any of the Brights actually liked their spouses or their children.

Anyway, there was nothing for it: she and Samuel had bought their train tickets, left their daughters in the care of their godparents, and travelled all the way to Charlotte.

And Cynthia had been presented with three long weeks of cooking and cleaning for her husband's cousins as they demanded bits and pieces from the late Mr Bright's estate and criticised everything that she did and was.

It wasn't a well-kept secret that the Brandon import-export business was nowhere near as profitable as it had been when Cynthia was a child. It was a shadow of its former self, and Sam and Cynthia had altered their lifestyle according to that – Cynthia had insisted. She wasn't going to live in a big house, with fancy silver and china and silk stockings when their workers were struggling to pay for food – or unemployed.

And as the business got a little worse, year after year, it became more obvious. Darned stockings, scuffed shoes. A patched dress. They had gone through rather more of their savings than they had hoped to, travelling to Charlotte.

But the slow failure of her father's business (god-rest the old bastard's soul), which was practically Cynthia's dowry, was just another mark against her to her husband's family. Just like the fact that she had pleaded with him to stay in Biloxi instead of decamping to Charlotte when her father had died, had given him two daughters instead of sons, had been a pleasant and practical partner instead of someone given to bouts of extreme emotion and whims.

Samuel didn't care about any of those things, thankfully. He had always praised her level-headed approach to life, adored their girls and had never mentioned the word 'son' to her. He had understood her need to remain in Mississippi, even when her parents were dead. He kept the secrets she told him, and never asked about the ones she didn't. He did his best to guard her against his family's criticisms, but it still hurt.

It had only been the message that eight-year-old Annabel was ill that had Cynthia headed back to Biloxi early. Annie had always been sickly, and what would be no more than a seasonal flu for a normal child could easily send Annabel to the hospital – or worse. Samuel had immediately agreed that Annie needed her mother, and that was how she ended up at a train station in the middle of Alabama, cursing the Bright cousin who had bought her ticket and stuck her with a two-hour wait, in this miserable drizzle.

She also felt terribly guilty at how grateful she was that her daughter's illness gave her a reason to escape the Brights. She was an awful mother, pleased with her daughter's suffering just because she was tired of hearing how doughy her scones were.

She had been people watching for hours, and was feeling more and more dowdy by the minute - her coat looking thread-bare and worn, her shoes scuffed, and the broken buckle replaced with a button, her hat quite lumpy and out of shape since Marianne had 'helpfully' washed it the summer she was nine. Compared to the young ladies swanning about, Cynthia felt every single one of her forty-something years. Had her hair ever been so golden? Her skin so flawless? Her waist so trim? Her clothing so fine?

Had she ever been as happy and carefree?

It seemed like no time at all had passed since she was a debutante, a bride, an adored young wife, even if her idea of romantic in those days was the fact that Samuel never beat her, and the savings she was making on their groceries.

And she will never regret her solemn youth, but she does sometimes wish that they had nicer things. That she could buy herself a new coat, and the girls new shoes without _worrying_ all the time.

She sees the blue woollen coat before she sees who is wearing it. And it is lovely, with elaborate black and white embroidery decorating the trim, flat black buttons. The owner is so small, she almost mistakes her for a child around Marianne's age, and for a moment she marvels at such an elaborate and beautiful garment being gifted to a _child_ , who will outgrow it much too fast.

And then she is slightly indignant, because it really is a beautiful coat and utterly wasted on some spoilt child, who will most likely wreck it without thought. Why couldn't, just once, Marianne and Annie be the children in finery? They took care of their things!

And then she turns around, and Cynthia's entire world spins.

She is a young woman, with glossy black curls peaking out from under a hat that matches the coat. Even her gloves match, with the same embroidery and tiny pearl buttons. Her grey dress peaks out the bottom, clearly silk. Her shoes are shiny, her stockings perfect and hole-less. An immaculate handbag hangs from one wrist.

She is accompanied by a striking man, in a neat suit, whose face is obscured by his hat, who has the girl's arm tucked through his, and carries a monogrammed suitcase in the other, stooping slightly to listen to the tiny woman. Everything about him screams that he adores the woman in his company. If the woman required he carry her purse and coat, Cynthia is certain the gentleman would, without question.

But it is that _face,_ with the rose-painted lips and bright smile. It is a face she sees every day at home, surrounded by red-brown curls. It is the face that Marianne shares with her dead aunt, and Cynthia wants to weep.

She remembers it all too well, even now. She had been so young that she had accepted her parents' words as truth, and believed parental love could overcome any obstacle (how many times did her parents teach her that wasn't true? It was only the grace of God that Samuel Bright was a good man, and that she learned to love him, because she had no choice of groom. Or dress. Or flowers.) It was only familial duty that kept her placing flowers on an empty grave for ten years, and that forces her to keep the two more recent Brandon graves tended.

And when she finally understood the hideous, horror-story truth, her father received a missive from the … the _hospital,_ that Mary-Alice had died. Neither of her parents had cared about Mary-Alice, but had looked grim and tucked the letter away, more worried that the neighbours had seen the return address than the death of their firstborn.

Her father had been utterly devoid of any sort of empathy or grief when she asked what would happen to her sister since there was already a grave in the cemetery, had been a funeral ten years before.

"They cremate their bodies, I expect."

And then he asked for her to pass the potatoes, and no one spoke of Mary-Alice again.

The only photograph of Mary-Alice she had was one she had found in her father's office, tucked into the pages of a Bible. It wasn't dated, but showed a solemn looking girl with black braids holding a book. It didn't look like Mary-Alice how Cynthia remembered her - always been laughing, always been imagining new stories and games, her hair adorned with ribbons, Cynthia's hand in hers.

She had stolen the photograph anyway, tucking it away amongst her undergarments, still thinking her sister had been taken by illness one night. It was all she had – she was certain any other evidence of Mary-Alice's existence had been destroyed by their mother once she was gone.

She only recognized her sister's grown up face from her own daughter's, and that thought made her _sick._

Mary-Alice would be a woman of fifty now, had she lived. Not this tiny debutante in her finery. It _couldn't_ be Mary-Alice. Not unless Cynthia believed those terrible stories of monsters and demons that her parents used to scare her with. No, Mary-Alice was either dead, and ashes in the air of Mississippi, or a mature woman hidden away from her family, living her life.

But a _daughter…_

This girl could be Mary-Alice's child. Cynthia's own niece.

Cynthia stood up quickly, staring openly now, as the girl and her escort present the tickets to the conductor.

She couldn't blame Mary-Alice a single bit if she had run away from the hospital and never bothered to contact them. Not with an empty grave bearing her name in the cemetery of their church, not with them tossing away a child like common scraps.

She grabs the handle of her suitcase – a cracked brown and red number that is hideous yet hardy – and hoists it, headed towards the carriage where the pair have ducked into.

 _Her niece, her niece!_

Fate is not on her side, is _never_ on her side (or she'd be Mrs Cynthia Carmichael, but that is a depressing story she has willed herself to forget), and the button on her shoe snaps off, and she stumbles into another woman. There are apologies, and she is righted, one of the pretty debutantes making Cynthia feel even lower by offering to loan her a button and sewing kit to repair her shoe, making sure she hasn't twisted an ankle or broken her case.

The whistle blows and the train – heading _north_ – pulls away as she whirls around, to call out.

She sees the girl in the blue coat in the window blur past as the train pulls away – her niece, she is certain, since Mary-Alice had light coloured eyes and that girl has dark – and she wants to cry.

There is nothing for it. No way to tell where that girl is going, who she is or where to start looking. No way to find out where her sister is. No way to fix it all, to undo what is done, to build herself a better family. Once again, she has failed to do anything for anyone, least of all herself.

"My niece was on that train," she manages to tell the concerned debutante. "I wanted to speak with her."

And Cynthia Bright turns and takes her seat again, hoping to fix her shoe before her train to Biloxi arrives.


	3. Rosalie

**Title:** The Ones We Left Behind 3/4

 **Chapter:** Rosalie

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** OC, Rosalie

 **Word Count:** 2,428

 **Rating:** PG

 **Genre:** Angst, Drama

 **Summary:** When someone dies and there isn't a body, you never stop looking for them. And you never know who you might pass on the street. The ones left behind, and their ghosts.

 **Notes:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and follow so far! i'm very grateful for the support, since this is my first Twilight fic. One more chapter after this - Jasper's chapter should be up on Wednesday. I hope you enjoy Rosalie's chapter, and thank you for reading.

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

It had been a damn long battle, Thomas Hale thought grimly, as he bolted the windows in the music room closed. Ten damn years, and it was finally here.

Getting George Hale to move out of the house on the corner of Park and Faraday had been the second hardest thing Thomas had done in his life - ten long years of hints, requests, coercion, threats and outright begging. But George had been born and raised within those four walls, raised his own family, and any suggestion of a smaller house or apartment had not been well received. No matter how old George Hale got, he could still make Thomas feel like a child when he got angry.

Thomas had always tried to do the right thing. In college, he had come home twice a month to visit his parents, occasionally with a friend in tow. He and his family had lived within a five minutes walk of his parents since the day he moved out. He visited his father three times a week, made sure that his family finances included money to take care of George is his old age, had invited George to every single family event, from his daughter's piano recitals, to his son's baseball games.

He'd been trying to make everything okay again, since that terrible night in 1933. No one seemed to care, when it was just Thomas and his life. But when Thomas asked them to do something, usually for their own happiness and health, hell was wrung over his head.

It was only a stroke that had left George lying on his bathroom floor for almost a _day_ had forced everyone, even George himself, to finally admit it – George Hale was an old man who could no longer live alone in the old Hale mansion.

Thomas's wife, Sarah, had immediately suggested that George move in with them. Their daughter, Frances, lived in Maine with her own family and Peter was headed away to college in a year, it wasn't like they didn't have the room. And Thomas had worked hard his whole life, they were more than comfortable – it would be no financial strain to add one old man to their household.

It was one of the reasons that Thomas loved Sarah. A quiet woman with a core of steel, nothing was too much trouble, nothing scared her off. Most women would not be happy with the idea of an elderly in-law taking over their guest room, but Sarah embraced it. Had always embraced the Hales and their baggage.

But it became clear very quickly that George required far more care than simply moving in with his son and daughter-in-law – his speech was affected, he required assistance to walk, and his memory was damaged. More than once he demanded Lillian's presence, getting agitated and nasty when Thomas kindly explained that Mother had been dead for almost twenty years.

And then the doctors, in even tones, explained that George had very little time left. There would be another stroke, heart-failure, so many things that could steal him from the world. He would go from hospital to a care facility.

And so the Hale house was to be sold, finally. But to be sold, things had to be sorted and packed up, sold or stored.

The evening after the news George was not long for the world, Thomas had sat in his study, looking at a photograph of his granddaughter Rosalina (what _had_ Franny been thinking?) and he called his brother.

Michael Hale had always been the black sheep. Had never been the same since 1933. None of them had, but Michael had always been the loudest in his bewilderment and fury. He'd done exactly as he pleased – turned down the idea of college or a job at the bank like Michael, worked as a valet for years. Gone and married Amy Russo from _Brooklyn_. Tiny, loud-mouthed Amy, who was _Italian_ and gave birth to Diane Elena Hale seven months after the rushed wedding at the back of a Catholic church in Brooklyn.

The screaming arguments between Michael and George had started when Michael was young, and continued right up until twins Peggy and Pammy were born. Thomas never knew what changed then, but afterward, Michael refused to speak with George or Thomas again – he refused their phone calls, returned their letters and the few times Thomas had gone to their home in Brooklyn, nobody had been home.

Michael had gone on to open Russo Mechanics in Brooklyn, and generally pretend he was never a Hale to begin with, let alone son of George and Lillian, brother of Thomas and Ro… brother of Thomas. Thomas knew that he and Amy were happy together, with Amy running her parents' restaurant, and had a gaggle of black-haired, Italian-speaking daughters.

But whatever had transpired between them, Thomas had to speak to Michael, just as he had when Lillian had died in '59. They were their parents. Michael had shown up to the funeral with Amy, Amy cradling a baby, and three children clamouring around her skirts, and Thomas was hopeful that Michael would see George one last time before the end.

And Michael had just as much right to the family home as Thomas did. Probably more, because he had more children.

The phone call had gone better than expected. Time had only sort of softened Michael's dislike of their father; Michael referred to George as 'the old bastard' twice, but he had seemed quite touched when Thomas had offered him the family house for his own.

He hadn't wanted it, and they agreed it had to be sold, whatever money left after they paid for George's care and burial to be split between the two of them.

Too many memories in that old house, and not enough good ones.

It had taken two long weeks for the two brothers, their wives, and the eldest of their children to sort through so much detritus. Even after Lillian Hale had passed in '59, after two decades of very poor health, her tendency to preserve every item, every garment, every piece of paper that crossed the threshold seemed to have lived on. Thank you notes from 1908 had been unearthed from one drawer, which make Thomas feel inexplicably sad. Baby clothes in carefully labelled boxes.

Diane and Franny had had a lovely afternoon, cataloguing Lillian's jewellery, gabbing about anything and everything, as if they were life-long best friends, instead of estranged cousins.

Di looked just like her aunt, too, except with her mother's black hair. It made her hard to look at, and Thomas hated that. She seemed like a lovely woman, full of happiness and warmth, but with an air of capability that seemed to have come from having working-class parents.

Amy and Sarah had tackled the bedroom at the top of the stairs, with gentle understanding that had sent Michael outside for a cigarette.

He still couldn't go in there, though he could have described the room perfectly from childhood memory – hand-stamped wallpaper depicting climbing roses, her Queen Anne bed made with pink and white bedding; the matching dressing table, scattered artfully with a perfume bottle, a set of pearls and a silver-backed hairbrush. A copy of Monet's _Waterlilies_ framed on the wall.

The dressmaker's dummy, denuded, in the corner.

No, he hadn't set foot over the threshold in forty-something years, though he knew his mother had often ventured in, to try and recapture something that had been lost and never found again.

It hadn't brought her any peace in the end, though. In the end, she had faded away into nothing, a footnote in her sons' lives – fragile, shattered Lillian Hale.

Sarah brought him a box, a sturdy hat box patterned with roses, and explained that there were a few mementoes she thought he might want, when he was ready. Amy had taken a similar box, for when the brothers were ready.

He resisted the urge to tell Sarah that she'd been given that box on her sixteenth birthday – it had held a hat trimmed with silk flowers, and little Michael had thought they were real and marvelled that they never ever wilted.

Dealing with the things in the house they didn't want had been difficult. Some was thrown away, but other things had value – the furniture, some of the paintings, the ornaments and books. Amy was delighted with the offer to take a cream silk chaise, even as Michael laughed they had nowhere to put it, and the cat would sleep on it. Franny had spirited away, guiltily, with the dressmaker's dummies, whilst Sarah cradled a pair of matching Chinese vases like newborn infants.

They had managed to sell more than they ever hoped – Michael had voted just to donate it, since no local antique stores wanted to trawl through the sheer amount of _stuff_ the Hales had managed to accumulate over the years.

But one family based in Vermont had been very interested, and had their large purchase shipped, sight unseen. He had almost refused their offer, as he watched the old dressing table, the bedframe, the boxes of ornaments and paintings loaded into the truck. But the money had been more than fair (he warned the gentleman acting on behalf of the family that half the paintings they wanted were copies, but they had still been interested for some strange reason), and no one in the family wanted such heavy, old-fashioned pieces, or more ornaments to dust. They had taken all they wanted from the old house, anyway: he had the Parrish hanging over his desk, and a framed photograph of the whole family back in 1922 hanging next to one of his children.

Franny took after Sarah, but she had Rose's smile.

It wasn't fair, even forty years later. They'd never been able to bury Rose. She'd left the house one afternoon, and never come home again.

He remembered those days with startling clarity; Rose putting lipstick on, and calling farewell to them all; how tense the house felt as afternoon turned to evening and then night, and Rosalie didn't come in the door. How he went to bed, sick with dread, and positive that he'd wake up in the morning and it would all be okay again.

Instead, the police had found glass and blood four blocks away, along with a button that Lillian insisted was from Rosalie's coat. Lillian had turned from hysterical to catatonic to utterly, irreversibly broken.

Then her wedding gown had simply vanished from the bedroom one night (George had always dismissed it as Lillian destroying it or hiding it away during one of her 'spells') and then Royce King had been killed, _murdered_ in a locked room, and it had all been a terrible mess that no one dared to try and untangle, because at the end, Rosalie was still, quite simply, gone.

The Kings had buried Royce with all the pomp and circumstances of royalty, yet Rose had had to make-do with a small plaque and a rose bush ten years later, because there was no body for a grave, so she couldn't be dead.

The blood, the glass, the button, the unsolved murders of Royce and his little gang – they had all been the reason Thomas had made sure Franny could throw a good punch before she turned ten, and he hated the idea of his nieces growing up in Brooklyn.

But then, Rose hadn't grown up in Brooklyn, and that hadn't saved her.

It was time to go. Other than a single box of cleaning supplies and miscellanea at the front door, the house was finally empty. And for the first time in his memory, it looked rather welcoming, with sunlight spilling into the rooms, the lemon and flower scent of clean floors, of bare walls and empty rooms. All the old ghosts finally cleared away.

It took no time at all to pick up the box and walk out the front door, locking the door for the last time.

And he saw her.

A young woman sitting on the bench, opposite the house, wearing a yellow dress, an enormous pair of sunglasses that obscured most of her faceand a very old-fashioned hat, staring at the house with a look that made Thomas feel bad for her. It was the same feeling he'd had, driving past his brother's house all those years ago.

He balanced the box on the top of his car and crossed the road, the woman stiffening as he came closer.

"If you are interested in the house, it is listed with Lincoln and Young Real Estate," he said politely.

She stared for a moment, and shook her head. "No. No, I used to live in this neighbourhood, and was visiting. I remember a family used to live here."

"My family," Thomas said politely. "Though, it was just my father for the last fifteen years."

"Oh." The girl seemed uncomfortable, standing up suddenly enough that Thomas stepped backwards.

"It's a very good family home," Thomas said suddenly, wondering if he was losing a potential sale _._ "My parents raised three of us there. And it's a good area." Even forty years later, he couldn't bring himself to say, 'safe'.

The woman stared at him for a second, but before she said whatever she was going to, a large dark-haired man had appeared at the corner.

"Rose," he called. It wasn't aggressive or angry, but something else. Understanding, sympathy, maybe a small warning.

The woman slumped slightly and nodded once. "Perhaps I will call the agent," she mused out loud, as the man came to her side and rested his hand on her shoulder, and Thomas wondered if he should tell the man to back off.

"Time to go, Rose," the man murmured and the woman sighed softly, tucking her arm around the man's.

She looked at Thomas, his own face reflected in her sunglasses. "Thank you."

"Have a good afternoon, ma'am."

Thomas crossed the road again, grabbing the box off his car and climbing in. Rose.

What were the odds that the lady he met the day he locked up the old place for the very last time was named 'Rose'?

Perhaps it was a sign. It was Sarah who organised the maintenance of Rosalie's memorial and Lillian's grave. It had to have been years since he actually took flowers to his sister's memorial.

Afterwards, Thomas decided, suddenly feeling twice his age. After the house was sold and his father was …settled, he would take roses for Rosalie's memorial. They had always been her favourite.


	4. Jasper

**Title:** The Ones We Left Behind 4/4

 **Chapter:** Jasper

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** OC, Jasper

 **Word Count:** 2,523

 **Rating:** PG

 **Genre:** Angst, Drama

 **Summary:** When someone dies and there isn't a body, you never stop looking for them. And you never know who you might pass on the street. The ones left behind, and their ghosts.

 **Notes:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and follow so far! Here we are, at the end, with Jasper's chapter. My next fic will definitely be an Alice/Jasper one-shot of their first meeting, then I'm hoping for one of my longer projects to be ready. Thank you for reading.

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

Cecelia watched the candle light throw shadows against the wall. Another wretched night, thanks to the heat, and she couldn't sleep a wink. Aunt Josie had given her mother 'a little something' to help her sleep, and Louisa Whitlock was sleeping deeply, unaware her daughter was prowling the room, the sleeves of her nightgown rolled up, and her hair pins jabbing her scalp.

Laredo in the summer time was unbearable.

Her father had suggested it back in the winter, under the guise of investing in land and animals, when it had really been for Louisa to see her sister, and get away from the family house for a short time. Louisa had been rather reluctant, at first, coming up with dozens of reasons why it wasn't possible, until Jeremiah Whitlock had declared the entire family should go (only three of them now), and some Whitlock cousin would watch over their Houston property until their return.

Celia had agreed eagerly, hoping her mother would be happy to see Josie again. She was rather excited to see Aunt Josie – after all, she had been only a child last time Josie came to Houston, and she had always rather admired her cousins (it was completely unfair that her second-cousin looked like a jug with ears, but Gideon, her first-cousin, was possibly the handsomest boy Celia had ever seen).

Beside, it put Kitty Carter in her place when Celia had been able to talk about her father's possible Laredo investments during their last sewing circle. Kitty thought she was all that because she went to her own cousin's wedding in San Antonio the previous spring. But now Celia Whitlock looked quite the grown-up lady, thinking about her family's investment opportunities and travel plans, which Kitty was still bragging about some cousin's wedding.

Served Kitty right for telling her she looked like a pudding in pink dress.

But it hadn't at all what she expected. She was used to Texas heat, of course, but either this year was the hottest summer on record, or being close to the Mexican border did something to her or the weather, because it was completely unbearable. It didn't help that the stink of the garbage and animals from the yard seemed to fill the house in the afternoon, until Celia was tucked away in her room with a lavender-scented handkerchief over her mouth and nose, wishing feverently she was back in Houston, in her pudding-dress.

Her cousins Alma and Gideon had all sorts of appointments and invitations that meant they were never at home, and never invited her along, leaving her to read and sew her days away. She had written to everyone she could think of, including Kitty Carter, and started crocheting a blanket for Dolores Baker's baby.

Her father was busy, looking into land and animals and other investments, or going out with her Uncle Harrison – excursions that were not even slightly suitable for young ladies. And her mother and Josie preferred to shut themselves up in Josie's sitting room and talk quietly.

She had joined them once, and it had been unbearable – she'd escaped and had a cry in the kitchen, where only the maid would see and wouldn't tattle on her.

All of Jasper's letters scattered around Mother – the ones he had sent them and the ones they had sent him, horribly enough – the soldier that came to the house had brought them with him. A medal, too, that Mother carried with her. And the two tintypes of him they had – one was a portrait of him and Celia when Celia was too small to remember, and the other was of the entire family with Jeremiah's parents when she was only ten.

Her mother wept over them all, and Josie did her best to mop up the tears, and Celia did her best to pour tea and resist the urge to tell Josie it was no good. She had tried everything since the news came that Jasper was missing, presumed dead. Her mother did nothing but weep and plead for someone to bring Jasper to her.

Aunt Josie had been quite stern with her, that she needed to keep her spirits up and not make her mother worse. No more crying over Jasper's shirts or having terrible nightmares of how he died. No, she was a grown-up lady now, and Cecelia apparently had a responsibility now, to take care of her mother.

Celia had felt like stamping her foot and pointing out that Josie still had both her siblings alive and well, even if scattered through Texas, and one mourning a beloved son. Josie still had both her children, hale and hearty (though, now that she wasn't quite so young, Gideon wasn't quite so handsome, and he was… well, an arrogant blow-hard with a weak chin.) Louisa had lost her son, Celia had lost her brother, and Josie could shove her bossiness where it best fit!

Celia wondered if anyone would be so devastated if she went missing. Perhaps if she had been a nurse? She wasn't bad with blood, since she always helped patch Jasper up after a spill, and her father insisted he had no patience with girls taken to squeamishness, but she was terrible at nursing the sick – Jasper often joked that everyone in the family was far too scared to ever get ill, lest they be placed in her rather brutal care.

Jasper had been a good brother, even if he was a frightful flirt with her friends. She remembered the nights she would listen to her mother worry that he'd get some girl 'in trouble', and her father laughing it off. All boys were the same, and Jasper was smart. He'd marry well, when the time came, and there was no harm in a wink and a smile at a pretty girl.

She hadn't spoken to him for a month after he kissed Nancy Anderson behind the church after Dolores' wedding; all Nancy could talk about for weeks afterwards was how wonderful Jasper was, and it was sickening and boring – _especially_ when the other girls joined in!

She'd told Nancy that when she discovered Nancy was already picking out baby names that sounded good with Whitlock and, well, she wasn't really friends with Nancy anymore.

And she'd caught Ellen Bell sneaking out of the barn after dark, with her clothing all mussed, but that could have been one of the other workers her father employed. Her mother was always muttering about the workers and their 'goings on', forbidding her from going anywhere near them without her father or brother.

Even if Ellen Bell had been making eyes at Jasper for weeks before hand.

Celia hadn't thought of Ellen Bell in a long time. They'd be friends as children, but drifted into different social circles as they got older. Ellen had been sent away just after Jasper left, when it was discovered she was in the family way. It had been very shocking, quite the scandal at the time. She wasn't even supposed to know why Ellen had gone, but Kitty Carter knew everything – it was the only reason Celia even bothered with her.

Well, that and the fact the other girls could be so drippy at times! And Kitty had never nursed a ridiculous crush on Jasper. It had actually gotten worse after he'd run away to join the army. She'd spent months dreading which ninny he'd end up marrying when he got home, because she couldn't bear the idea that he'd marry any of the simpering nitwits in Houston.

But Jasper had had his good moments, too. He taught her to ride, how to repair the fences, how they did the family accounts. He told her all the things that Mother and Father didn't think she needed to know, like the war. He'd been so determined to go and fight, even though he was too young.

He bought her books, too, ones that Mother never would have let her read. If it wasn't poetry or some gentle girl's story, Mother made sure it was locked up in Father's study.

Her favourite times with Jasper were when she would sit out on the veranda and sew, and Jasper would read from the newspaper for her, not skipping over anything.

And when they were young, and Mother was in bed sick with the baby that would be born cold and dead, she remembered how he would braid her hair, so gently, and made sure she always had ribbons that matched her clothed.

Even if he did hide snakes in her shoes, and fill her apron pockets with jelly, he'd been a good person. He would have been a good soldier too – he died a Major, and she knew that had made their father proud.

Sighing, Celia got up, carefully picking up the candle and her newest book. It had been a gift from the sewing circle, and picked by Kitty – a rather treacly romance between a soldier with amnesia and terrible burns upon his face that required bandages, and a nurse who was mourning the death of her husband in battle. Celia was less than halfway through, and she already knew that when the bandages came off, the nurse would discover the soldier _was_ her husband. It seemed like a terrible insensitive choice, but perhaps it was meant to comfort Celia, that maybe Jasper would be found alive.

She padded through the halls. Aunt Josie probably wouldn't mind too much if she sat in the kitchen and read, with a cool drink. Better than risking waking her mother.

Her aunt's maid, Caroline, slept in the room off the kitchen, and was clearly about to go to bed when Celia emerged into the kitchen. Dough was rising on the counters, the kitchen was scrubbed clean and everything was ready for the next morning, though the bins were gone and the door unlatched. Surely, Caroline wouldn't mind if she sat in the kitchen for awhile – she was more than capable of cleaning up after herself.

The shriek Celia heard was not like the ones in her books. Those were clear, strong and loud, enough to bring any number of heroes to the rescue. This was hoarse and feeble and utterly terrified.

And no one else would hear it.

Hurriedly placing her candle and book onto the table, Celia darted to the door, to peer into the night.

The kitchen waste was strewn through the yard, and two dark figures were standing there; she couldn't make out any faces.

But she could see Caroline's face quite clearly.

And Caroline was very, very dead.

Celia herself nearly screamed. She certainly wet herself. Caroline had been very nice and an excellent cook and seamstress, always a kind word. Now, her head was short of ripped from her neck, blood _everywhere._ She had seen animals being born, injured, being slaughtered, being butchered, all of that, and it was nothing like this. That was controlled, neat, and necessary.

This was none of those things. The blood was splattered on the walls and ground and across the dark figures. It was black like oil, in the dark, and had a proper smell.

And Caroline's blank eyes just stared in horror and pain and fear.

A low chuckle broke through her thoughts, as the person holding Caroline stepped forward, tossing her to the ground, into the thin moonlight, Celia broke. There was no way she would ever be the same Celia again after this night. Not again, not anymore.

Jasper hadn't changed enough since he'd been gone. He looked almost the same – older, harder. Definitely taller, and Mother would have had such a fit at the length of his hair.

His eyes were all wrong, but she couldn't work out why, and his clothing was torn and completely filthy, Caroline's blood adding to the stains and grime. And that smirk, his mouth smeared with blood.

Caroline's blood.

It was something like the smirk he gave Nancy and Ellen and all those other drippy girls, but crueller. Jasper had always been a little careless but never intentionally cruel. And his expression was cruel, uncaring, utterly terrible.

Celia couldn't move a muscle.

"It stinks here," he said, nudging Caroline with his toe. "I'm going back."

"Of course, mi amor," a female figure said, hidden by the shadows. "We need to return before dawn, but I have some business to attend to."

Jasper nodded once and vanished suddenly – fast enough that Celia nearly gasped. The woman followed, her blue skirts twirling in the darkness.

Celia scrambled out of the doorway, hands shaking as she ran towards Caroline. She wasn't even sure _why._ Caroline was quite, quite dead and no amount of rough nursing or screaming for help would bring her back. And however they had inflicted death (her _brother)_ had been truly terrible; nothing Caroline would want to survive.

The muck of the yard – animals, garbage, waste and now blood – soaked her feet, and then her nightgown, as she knelt beside poor Caroline, staring. The necklace she wore had _fallen into_ the wound, and she wanted to fish it out, wanted to do something so this wasn't so terrible to look at, so that when she fetched help, they wouldn't be forced to see what Celia had …

"Hello little mouse."

Celia gasped and turned around to see the woman who had been with her brother. In better light, she was lovely – dark hair framed her face, her complexion flawless. She was average height and build, but was the loveliest girl Celia had ever seen in her life – she looked more like a painting.

"I thought I heard you scurrying about," the woman said, appearing in front of her before Celia could even blink.

"I'm afraid I was a little thoughtless, letting Jasper have your friend there. I'm still peckish, after all. Though, I suppose it was better than letting him go through the building and helping himself," the woman laughed, and Celia pressed closer to Caroline. "Newborns can be so messy. No mind, though: his year is almost up and he can invade as many houses as he wants."

She didn't even have it in her to beg. She just stared.

She had heard her parents say so many times, if they only knew what had happened. Had Jasper taken a bullet and died? Been ambushed? Been ill? The fact they had never known what had become of him had haunted both Louisa and Jeremiah, added lines to their face and grey to their hair.

All she could think is that she wished she didn't know, wished for those nightmares of Jasper dying slowly and in pain, rotting in the desert sun, that were almost sweet compared to this horror.

"If you scream, I'll kill everyone in the house once I'm finished with you, right down to the little lap dog." The voice was honeyed and sweet, like a mother confiding in a child, and Celia finally realised what was wrong with their eyes.

They were red as rubies, as the blood smeared over their mouths.

Celia let out a sob and closed her eyes.


End file.
